


To See Our Glory

by duckbunny



Series: Camaraderie [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Asexual Character, Consensual Kink, M/M, Masochism, No Sex, Platonic BDSM, Punching, Sadism, Top Drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:26:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every soldier needs some way to relax. Laurens has a... rougher way than most, but Hamilton enjoys obliging him. Enjoys it, in Hamilton's own opinion, a little too much.</p><p>Rated M for consensual adult activities. No sex, no nudity. Unhappy head-spaces, because even happy fun kink can go wrong sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To See Our Glory

Laurens never looks so beautiful as when he's like this.

They are away from the edge of camp, up the slope and into the woods, both in their shirtsleeves. Their coats are draped over branches. It's a careful staging; if they're interrupted, it will be just plausible enough to claim they quarrelled and were having it out with fists. Plausible and nearly one-third true.

Laurens is pressed up against an oak, gripping the rough bark for dear life. Alexander has one hand wrapped tight in his hair, keeping his head turned to one side. It means there's no defence at all for his back, no way to turn or slip away from whatever Alexander chooses to do. He is taking his time, landing one solid punch at a time and listening to the whimpers Laurens tries to swallow, watching the way he closes his eyes when he expects the next blow. It is glorious.

Alexander would have said, when they first met, that Laurens was a handsome man. In ordinary hours, that is still true. But like this, he blazes. Every gasp and twitch is seared into Alexander's mind. It is as if all the light in the world was contained in this one sight, the fire of Creation sunk into this slender frame. Alexander strikes hard and drowns himself in the sound of it.

Until Laurens chokes on a sob and struggles in earnest, twisting away from Alexander's fist.

Alexander lets go at once. It's all the movement he can manage, that first instinct to stop, that half-step backwards. He pants, wide-eyed, while Laurens shudders through the pain and says raggedly “Too hard.” He can't breathe, can't speak, can't look away. Can't do anything but reach for Laurens again, stroke trembling fingers through the hair he was pulling, rest his hand on a shoulder as gently as if Laurens were made of cobwebs. “I'm sorry,” he breathes, “I'm sorry, are you hurt?”

Laurens laughs at that, shaky and hoarse but genuine. “What were you _trying_ to do, Hamilton, kiss me?” He presses his forehead against the bark and closes his eyes, his breath slowing, and when he says quietly “Don't stop?” Alexander realises he can't. He has to keep going. Has to do better than abandoning Laurens now, even if his throat is tight and his heart pounding.

So he runs his fingers lightly over Laurens shoulders and, because he can't trust his fists, presses with his thumbs instead, grips folds of skin between strong fingers. Laurens relaxes under his hands, his whimpers softening into something more helplessly eager. Alexander can't bear to listen to him now. He starts talking instead, meaningless chatter about the dancing habits of British officers by way of the women they don't kiss properly, anything to keep himself distracted, while his nails sink into Laurens' shirt and the warm skin underneath.

He can feel himself losing momentum, but Laurens keeps pace, a mercy he doesn't deserve, and by the time he is reduced to gentle stroking over spine and shoulders, it's enough. Laurens leans against the tree, his breathing deep and easy, gathering himself together until he can turn to shove Alexander playfully away, clap him on the shoulder, murmur “I'll see you back at camp” and steal away, flinching only a little at the weight of his coat on his back.

Alexander drops ungracefully to the ground and sits there, staring at the tangled grass. His head is filled, still, with the sound of Laurens sobbing under his hands. The memories will not subside, returning over and over until he thinks he will die still seeing them. He feels wrung out and filthy, as thin as paper. His throat aches and his breath catches but the tears do not come. Perhaps he doesn't deserve them. Weeping would be a lie. He can't be allowed to pretend remorse, not when he remembers so clearly.

He takes himself in hand and sets out the facts, ruthless as his own fists. Laurens needs this, or something like this. When he does not get it, he puts himself in danger. In New York, there was somewhere he could go, some brothel or madam that could provide the – Alexander swallows and makes himself think the word – the pain he needed. Here, on the march, until he can find something better, he has only Alexander.

Alexander is not safe. Cannot be trusted. Alexander can hurt him too much and even wallowing in regret he can't deny how good it felt, can feel a twist of pleasure in the memory of those whimpering cries. He is warped and weak and it pleases him to hurt – yes, hurt, face up to it, _hurt_ – his closest friend.

And he's all Laurens has got, so he's going to have to do.

He sits for a long time, while the light goes out of the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, no, Alexander is not any kind of monster to enjoy doing what he's doing. He's just having a bad day. It is a thing that can happen and if the boys would talk about this, it would be easier on him.  
> They'll get to the talking part, I promise.


End file.
